


Revenge

by velvetjinx, Wolfsdrache



Category: Hawkeye (Comics), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Creepy Brock Rumlow, Deaf Character, Deaf Clint Barton, F/M, Hospitalization, Implied/Referenced Torture, Kidnapping, Non-Graphic Violence, Peril, non graphic torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-31
Updated: 2021-01-31
Packaged: 2021-03-18 05:47:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,190
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29113266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/velvetjinx/pseuds/velvetjinx, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wolfsdrache/pseuds/Wolfsdrache
Summary: When Natasha disappears mid-mission while undercover, Clint and Coulson must race against the clock to find her.
Relationships: Clint Barton/Natasha Romanov
Comments: 2
Kudos: 20
Collections: Marvel Reverse Big Bang 2020





	Revenge

**Author's Note:**

> Jinx: I want to thank wolfie for being an amazing artist, and inspiring (as well as the ideas we discussed for) this fic! To E for the read through, and also to thethingsnerd and wolfie for the Beta. This was a pleasure to work on. ❤️❤️❤️

Clint’s knees bounced nervously as he waited for Natasha to check in. She was already ten minutes late, but they always allowed a half hour each way just in case. 

“She’ll check in when she can,” Coulson said levelly, although Clint could see that he, too, was watching the clock from the corner of his eye. At one minute late, Clint had barged into Coulson’s office, and Coulson hadn’t even needed to ask. He’d merely motioned to the chair across from him, not even looking at Clint when he threw himself into it. 

Coulson sighed and stood, stretching his arms out far enough that his suit sleeves rode up to reveal his wrists. “I can’t just sit here. I’m gonna go get a coffee. I’m not even gonna ask if you want one.”

“Strong, black, four sugars,” Clint responded, staring at his phone distractedly. 

“I know.”

Coulson left the room, and Clint exhaled noisily. 

“Come on, Nat,” he murmured. “Check in already. You know I hate it when you keep me waiting.”

Clint really, really hated when Natasha went on a mission without him. They were a team—and a damn good one. One that never needed an external extraction plan. Except usually Clint was able to watch Natasha from afar, bow in hand. This time she was completely off the grid. 

Coulson returned soon with coffee. He didn’t ask, but Clint told him anyway. 

“Nothing yet.”

Coulson nodded, sitting and taking a sip from his styrofoam cup. The coffee was shitty, as always, but it was hot and it was caffeinated. 

The seconds ticked by far too slowly. 

The minute hand hit the half hour. 

“Give her another ten minutes,” Coulson said, voice calmer than it had any right to be. 

Clint nodded. “Ten minutes.”

He took the last sip of coffee and sat the cup on the desk. He worried at his lip with his teeth, then jumped when his phone buzzed. 

“See?” Coulson said, although he couldn’t hide his relief. “I told you she…”

“Coulson,” Clint interrupted him hoarsely, turning his phone around. Coulson looked at the message, his eyes widening slightly at the unfamiliar Russian phrase. 

_взгляни на её увитые розами волосы_

“That’s not the check in code word.”

“No it is not,” Coulson replied, already with his own phone to his ear. “Yeah, I’m going to need a trace on a cellphone.”

Clint sat, numb, staring at the screen. What the hell did that mean? ‘Gaze upon her rose wreathed hair’—was it a riddle? A code? His knowledge of Russian was pretty fluent thanks to Nat, but he was still mostly ignorant about cultural stuff like literature. 

“Come on.” Coulson tapped Clint on the shoulder. “She’s at the safehouse on Seaton Place Northwest.”

“We’re taking my car,” Clint said immediately as he stood. Coulson didn’t argue; instead, he followed Clint down to the parking garage. 

Clint didn’t use his car often, but it did have a bow and quiver full of various arrows in the back. He slid into the driver’s seat, barely waiting for Coulson to buckle up before speeding off. “Sorry,” he muttered insincerely as Coulson’s head bounced off the headrest. 

They arrived at the safehouse ten minutes later—it should have been closer to fifteen but Clint was _not_ dicking around, not today—and he screeched to a halt outside the apartment building. A parking attendant yelled at them but Coulson merely flashed his badge as they headed inside and up the stairs. 

Once outside the apartment, Clint was ready to burst in, but Coulson held him back, drawing his gun. He nodded, and Clint kicked in the door. 

Down the hallway they went, carefully sweeping every room. Every room turned up empty, save for the meager furnishings. 

“What would have brought her to this specific safehouse?” Coulson murmured. 

“Maybe it was the closest to where she was today?” 

Heading back to the living room, Clint noticed something on the table and froze. 

“Coulson,” he croaked. 

Coulson put a steadying hand on Clint’s arm. There, on the coffee table, was Nat’s phone, some photographs, and…

“Coulson, her necklace.” She never took her arrow necklace off. Yet there it was, on top of the pile. 

Coulson was already on the phone to get the SHIELD forensics team down there, when Clint heard a floorboard creak in the doorway. He spun round, only to see someone tall and wiry, in dark clothes and a balaclava, making a run for it. 

“Coulson!” he yelled, but Coulson was already right behind him as they chased the masked intruder out of the building, where they leapt into a red sports car which immediately sped off. 

Clint wrenched the door of his own car open, and within seconds they were speeding after the car in pursuit. The red car weaved in and out the traffic in an attempt to lose them, but Clint managed to keep up—in fact, gaining. Clint narrowed his eyes and hit cruise control.

“Take the wheel,” he yelled at Coulson as he twisted round to get into the back seat. Coulson yelped in surprise, but managed to keep the car steady, clambering into the driver seat as soon as Clint was out of it. 

As the car sped up again, Clint opened the passenger side window in the back seat fully, pulling himself out far enough to draw his bow. He let loose an arrow, which smashed the back window of the red car. 

“Can’t you just use a gun like normal people?” Coulson yelled. 

“Shut up and drive!” Clint hollered back. Drawing his bow again, he let another arrow fly. It exploded against the red car’s trunk, making it swerve into oncoming traffic. Before it could hit anything, however, the driver managed to pull back into their own lane, accelerating away. 

“Coulson! They’re getting away!” Clint shouted. 

Coulson accelerated hard enough that Clint almost fell out the window, catching himself just in time. 

Clint saw the sports car make a hard right, and Coulson dodged between the cars to follow them. The red car was parked by the sidewalk down a blind alley, and Clint jumped out the car, closely followed by Coulson, both with weapons drawn. 

The car was empty. 

“How the _fuck_?” Clint shrieked, kicking the car tyre and immediately regretting it. 

Coulson ignored him, as he was already calling the forensics team to come and take the car away. 

Clint rested his back against the wall, tipping his head back. 

Mother _fucker_. 

***

It was bright through the thin blindfold. 

Natasha blinked against the dark cloth as she was dragged along, stumbling, with men shouting around her. She must have passed out briefly in the van; the ropes around her hands and ankles were new. She surreptitiously moved her wrists against the bindings, but they were fastened tight, in a way she couldn’t easily get out of. 

The men were yelling in Russian, their accents thick. If she had to guess, she’d have said Chukhloma. 

That worried her. 

“Put her over there,” one of the men said in Russian, and she was unceremoniously pushed into a chair. She could feel the men binding her arms and legs to something. Damnit. “Now, back away.”

She knew that voice; her skin began to crawl. _Please don’t be Vasily_ , she begged the universe, as her cotton top rubbed against the whip marks on her back and she swallowed a hiss. At least they had redressed her after they’d beat her with the whip. She didn’t particularly want to be naked. For one thing, wherever they were was cold. She suppressed a shiver. 

Someone took off her blindfold and she blinked at the light, the man in front of her coming into focus. 

“Vasily. What a pleasure,” she said sarcastically in Russian. 

“Natalia. The pleasure is all mine, I am sure.” Vasily smirked as he replied in the same language, glancing at one of the other men and nodding before turning his attention back to her. His English had never been good. “I trust you have been well treated by my men?”

“As well as I’d expect from anyone working for you.” The bruise under her eye ached, as did her split lip. “What do you want?”

“What, no small talk? No ‘how have you been’?” Vasily tutted. “Not very polite of you, Natalia. But you’re right, let’s get to the point. You wronged me and you wronged my organization. You were caught by a US intelligence agency. You should have gone to prison. Yet here you are, working with the enemy. You don’t deserve it, Natalia. You don’t deserve any of it.”

“What are you going to do?” Natasha asked, keeping her tone light, and taking in as much of her surroundings as she could. It appeared to be an apartment that was in the middle of renovation—the bare timber and concrete blocks made that clear—but she had the feeling there was soundproofing in the walls and floor. If she were to scream, no one around would hear it. She looked back up at Vasily. 

Vasily grinned. 

***

“Barton, sit down, for God’s sake.”

Clint paused his pacing briefly to glare at Coulson before continuing. 

Coulson sighed. “It doesn’t look good. The photographs…” 

Clint shuddered. The Polaroid pictures had been horrifying; blood spattered picture upon picture of Nat with various injuries. The one of her back with the whip marks…

Best not to think about them. 

“But if they’ve tortured her there’s a better chance she’s still alive, right?” Clint asked. 

“Usually, yes, but we’ve had no demands or contact from the kidnappers except for that one text.”

“And how the hell did they escape?” Clint continued, fuming. “We had them cornered!”

“Forensics seem to think they managed to scale the wall up to a high window.”

Clint’s eyebrows nearly hit his hairline. “The hell?”

“There were traces of some kind of adhesive on one of the walls. Like they used a device to climb up.”

Clint flopped into a chair. “So what now?”

“We’ve run the plates, but as we expected they were stolen. We’re running the car serial number now. If we get a hit on that, great. If not…” Coulson sighed. “If not we’re going to have to wait for contact.”

“This is bullshit,” Clint growled, standing. “There must be something else we can do.”

“We’ve also found out what that line means—the one from the message.” Coulson was frowning. “It’s a line from a poem by Letitia Elizabeth Landon. The title is ‘Revenge’.”

“Revenge on whom?” Clint asked. “You? Me? Nat? SHIELD?”

“We don’t know yet,” Coulson told him. “Agent Barton, you need to go home. There’s nothing you can do right now, and we need you sharp. Not just buzzing on caffeine,” he added, as Clint was about to interrupt. “You need to sleep.”

“I don’t…”

“Barton. You’d never forgive yourself if you weren’t a hundred percent sharp on the job. Go. Home.”

“Fine.” Clint eyeballed him. “But you _will_ call me as soon as you hear anything.”

“Of course.”

Clint nodded and grabbed his jacket, leaving the Triskelion and driving home. Lucky greeted him at the door, bouncing up on him and licking him everywhere he could reach. 

“Hey, boy.” Clint stroked Lucky’s golden head. “Let’s get some pizza, yeah?”

Lucky barked, and Clint smiled wanly. His eyes fell on Nat’s favorite t-shirt, still hanging over the back of the sofa, and he rubbed his eyes. 

Fuck. 

***

Natasha could withstand a lot of torture—she was trained to. Comparatively, these guys were almost amateurs. She wondered where Vasily was finding his guys nowadays. 

As her head was pushed under water again, she held her breath, wondering if Clint had realized she was missing yet. If he was looking for her. If he’d found the safehouse, found her arrow necklace…

Her head was dragged out the water and she took a deep, gasping breath. 

“Enough!” Vasily sauntered up to them, as Natasha stood tall, looking him in the eyes. “Now, what I think is, we have been playing for a while, hmm? What I think is, that before the real games start, you should tell us everything about this SHIELD that you work for.”

Natasha tilted her head to one side, but stayed silent. 

Vasily’s smile turned venomous. “You are right, of course. Pain awaits you whether you talk or not. Though if you tell me what you know, I may tell my men to go easier on you. Your choice.” 

Natasha stayed silent. She could hear frequent ambulance sirens through the windows, their glass not thick enough to dampen the loud sound, so she knew she must be near a hospital. There were also occasional faint voices speaking what sounded like Spanish, and one or two that sounded almost like Farsi. It meant nothing yet, but she stored the information away for later. 

Vasily stalked up to her, backhanding her across the face. “Talk!”

She pursed her lips and looked evenly at him. Her cheek stung where his signet ring had split the skin, and she could feel blood oozing down from the gash. 

“Very well,” Vasily said, waving his hand dismissively. “Timur, I think we need… a little more ‘shock’ value, don’t you?”

As another man—Timur, Natasha assumed—brought the electroshock machine over, someone else gagged her, and she set her jaw. It was going to be a long night. 

***

Clint’s phone was vibrating next to his face. He fumbled in his rush to put in his hearing aids, and answered just before it rang off. 

“Yeah?”

“Barton, we’ve got some intel. Get here ASAP.”

“On it.” Clint ended the call and jumped out of bed, throwing on clothes haphazardly. Lucky whined as Clint nearly tripped over his shoes in his rush to put them on. 

“Gotta go, boy. I’ll leave you food.” He kissed Lucky’s fluffy head and ran, tossing some food in the dog bowl before grabbing keys and dashing for the door. He returned a few moments later to fetch his wallet and security pass. The items safe in his pocket, he pulled the door closed behind him and ran to his car. 

Coulson’s office was a hub of activity. Various members of STRIKE, none of whom Clint really liked, were milling around, looking at maps and papers. Clint strode straight up to Coulson’s desk. 

“What’s the word?”

Coulson motioned for Clint to follow him out, closing the door behind him. “The intel we have is that it’s a Russian organization who are behind the kidnapping. They’re… an old employer of Romanoff’s.”

Clint felt his blood run cold. That was definitely not good news. “So the revenge is on Nat?”

Shaking his head, Coulson frowned. “Not necessarily. Or at least, maybe not only. The intel we have is that this organization wasn’t too happy with Romanoff being welcomed with open arms by US intelligence. She’d double crossed them in the past, and for SHIELD to have her working for us… It makes it seem like we gave her a second chance they don’t think she deserves.”

“Shit.” Nat didn’t really talk about her past, even with him, but he knew enough to know that any Russian group she’d been part of couldn’t be good. “Do we have anything else? A location?”

Coulson shook his head again. “We have a few possible locations, but if we hit the wrong one…”

He didn’t have to finish his sentence for Clint to know that would spell bad news for Nat— _if_ she was still alive. 

“So there’s nothing we can do?” Clint asked, agitation coloring his tone. 

“Not until we get something concrete.”

“That’s not good enough!” he yelled, and Coulson’s expression went blank as he led Clint away from his office. 

“We’re doing the best we can, Barton. But we haven’t much to go on. You should go help STRIKE look over the notes. You know Romanoff better than any of us. Maybe you’ll see something we can’t.”

Clint took a deep breath. “Okay.”

“And we have to accept the possibility that maybe she hasn’t made it.”

Clint narrowed his eyes. “She will,” he said shortly, before striding back to Coulson’s office. He knew Natasha. She’d get through this. 

***

Natasha’s throat was starting to hurt from screaming. It wasn’t beyond what she could deal with, in terms of pain, but screaming helped. She had been taught it was better to scream than to try and fight the pain. 

At least they’d trained her well for this in the Red Room. 

The machine was switched off, and she took a deep, shuddering breath as her muscles continued to spasm. 

“Had enough yet?” Vasily asked, his tone amused. Natasha stayed silent. She would have flipped him off, if she could. “Such a shame that you are so determined not to talk. I’m surprised, indeed, that you allowed yourself to be caught in the first place.”

“I wouldn’t have been, if your men had been honorable fighters,” Natasha managed hoarsely. “They darted me with a muscle relaxant before beating me. Otherwise you’d have been scraping them off the walls.”

Vasily laughed. “Yes, we were prepared to take you down however we could. I know how well trained you were, in that Red Room of yours. That is why we employed you in the first place. But you—ah, you were always looking for something better. And so you betrayed us to our rivals. I lost many good people because of that betrayal.”

Natasha hid a wince. She knew she had been responsible for far too much death in her past, but having it laid out like that was not exactly pleasant. 

“Now, here we are. So many years later! But you are the one who cooked it, so you must eat it yourself. Better now than never, eh? For me, at least.” Vasily grinned darkly. “This time we will have our revenge on you and those who took you in. Especially that man with the bow—oh yes,” he said when Natasha tensed slightly. “We know about him. How he was the one who did not kill you, but brought you to SHIELD and convinced them to make you an asset. We know how close you are with him. He is next on our list.”

Vasily laughed, and Natasha tamped down on her anger. She would have to have full control of her emotions now, if she was to have any hope of escaping. 

***

“So you really think she’s still alive, huh?”

Clint looked up with narrowed eyes to see Brock Rumlow smirking at him. Of all the assholes in STRIKE, Brock was the worst. He always appeared to have resented Natasha and Clint’s abilities in the field. If Clint and Nat were precision instruments, STRIKE were somewhere between a hammer drill and a wrecking ball. 

Clint shrugged and continued cleaning his bow, refusing to let Rumlow rile him. “Of course she is. There hasn’t been a situation she couldn’t get out of yet.”

“Only takes one,” Rumlow said with a sneer. 

Clint nocked an arrow and drew it back, ostensibly to test the tension of his bow but also managing to aim at Rumlow’s crotch. Rumlow’s eyes widened and he took a step back. 

“True,” Clint said steadily, “but I very much doubt this is that one.”

Rumlow turned on his heel and left, and Clint relaxed his bow and placed the arrow carefully in his quiver. 

“Threatening your colleagues now?”

Clint rolled his eyes as Coulson stepped into the room. “Hardly. Just making sure my equipment is still top notch. Not my fault he’s a coward.”

“Hmm.” Coulson frowned. “What if he’s right?”

“He’s not.”

“But what if…”

“Coulson.” Clint glared at his boss. “This is not up for debate. We’re getting her back.”

“Okay.” Coulson held up his hands in surrender. “Okay.”

Clint touched the phone in his pocket, closing his eyes and wishing. _Let her contact me. Let us find her in time._

***

They’d left her alone for now, lights off in the room where she was tied up. Slowly, carefully, she began to wiggle her wrists. She was patient, taking her time, not rushing. 

The ropes began to ease. 

Once her hands were free, she worked on her ankles. The ropes were tight, and well knotted, but no match for her training. As soon as she was free, she felt her way around the room until she found the door, then positioned herself behind it. 

She didn’t have long to wait before Vasily returned, and no sooner had he stepped into the room than the rope was around his throat and Natasha was ready to strangle him. 

“Phone, unlocked, now!” she ordered him. He cursed her out but handed her the phone, obviously realizing that she would just as soon kill him. 

She wrapped the rope around her wrist before grabbing the knife from his belt, resting the point at his right kidney as she messaged Clint. 

_Heard ambulances, Spanish, Farsi(?). Come get me, Art._

As she hit send, Vasily spun around, almost knocking her off balance. She dropped the phone, lashing out with the knife, and he screamed as blood spurted from his hand. 

The screaming meant it was only seconds before the room was overrun and she was darted again. As she drifted into unconsciousness, all she could do was hope that the message had been sent. 

***

Clint’s phone buzzed, and he glanced down at it. His eyes widened as he took in the words on the screen. _Art_. Short for Artemis. Her secret name for him. 

“Coulson!” he yelled, leaping to his feet. “Coulson!”

“What?”

“Is there a potential match near a hospital?”

Coulson nodded. “Two. One near George Washington University Hospital, one near Howard.”

“Where would she be more likely to hear Spanish and Farsi?”

“Farsi?” Coulson frowned, before grinning. “Not Farsi. _Tajik_. George Washington Hospital is near the Spanish and Tajikistan embassies.”

“Then she’s there!”

His phone buzzed again, but this time it had him paling.”

“Barton?”

Clint handed the phone to Coulson. The unknown number had messaged him again, with a message in Russian and a graphic photograph of a severed finger. 

_Here is what happens when she does not do what she is told. The rest of the pieces will be mailed to you_. 

Coulson closed his eyes. “So we’re too late.”

“No.”

Coulson’s eyes snapped open, meeting Clint’s determined gaze. “But…”

“She’s not dead. That’s not her finger.”

“How do you know?”

_Because I’ve kissed each one. Because I’ve run my own fingers over her hands so many times I know them better than I know mine. Because I know what they feel like, what they look like, what they taste like._

Clint said none of this. Instead, he took a deep breath. 

“I just know.”

***

_Dark and drifting. Voices. Then dark again, and then?_

_Nothing._

***

Clint couldn’t help but be grateful for early winter sunsets. Under the cover of dark, STRIKE was sent in covertly. Clint, however, went in first, pizza box in hand, humming to himself. 

The elevator dinged on his floor, and he knocked at the door of the apartment. 

A burly man opened it on the chain, eyes narrowed. 

“What do you want?” he asked, voice heavily accented in Russian. 

“Someone ordered pizza?”

The man frowned in response to Clint’s beaming smile, and turned away for a split second—all Clint needed to stab the guy with an arrow to the neck. The guy went down, and Clint kicked the door in before diving to one side. 

All hell broke loose. 

The guys in the apartment started firing, as STRIKE broke through the windows surrounding them. Clint nocked an arrow and began to run through the firefight, somehow managing to not get hit. 

He dashed down a dark hallway, taking out a couple of guys who got in his way as he checked each room. There were some torture devices set up in a couple of the rooms, and Clint could barely suppress his shudder. 

The room just past the bathroom had a large bolt on it. Clint silently slipped it to one side, before bursting into the room. 

There was a man lying dead on the floor, a finger missing. Over in the corner, in a crumpled heap…

“Nat!”

Clint ran to her, checking her pulse first. It was slow, but steady. As he held her close to him, her eyelids fluttered open. 

“Clint?”

“Hey.” Clint couldn’t help but grin down at her. “How’re you doing?”

“Just peachy,” she slurred. 

“We’re clear.” Clint looked up to see Rumlow standing in the doorway, sneering. “There could be more on their way, though, so maybe keep your touching reunion until we’re back at HQ.”

He turned on his heel, leaving before Clint could retort. Clint sighed, and carefully lifted Nat into his arms, carrying her out and down to the van. Coulson jumped in the back with them, and together they secured her comfortably as the van drove them the short distance to the George Washington Hospital. 

***

The light was bright. 

Natasha winced, but that made her head spin, so she tried to open her eyes instead. 

“Nat?”

As the shape in front of her came into focus, she couldn’t help but smile. “Hey, Clint.”

He squeezed her hand. “You had the team worried for a while there.”

“But not you?” She couldn’t speak above a murmur, but Clint read her lips anyway. 

“Not me.”

She smiled, slowly drifting out of consciousness. 

The next time she woke up, her mouth was dry and her head hurt. “Water,” she gasped, and a nurse held a cup of cool water to her lips, allowing her to drink. 

“Clint?” she croaked, once she had taken a few sips. 

“Mr Barton stepped out for a moment to take a call,” the nurse told her, his eyes kind. “He’s just outside the door. He’ll be back soon.”

No sooner had he finished speaking when the door opened and Clint hobbled in. Natasha blinked. 

“What did you do?” she asked hoarsely. 

“Kicked a vending machine,” Clint mumbled sheepishly. “It wouldn’t give me my skittles.”

Natasha felt something like love settling warm in her chest and suppressed a smile. 

“How are you feeling?” he asked, stroking her hair back from her forehead with a tenderness she’d rarely seen from him. 

“Like I’ve been hit with horse tranqs,” she replied. 

“Yeah, unsurprising. That’s exactly what they used.” Clint frowned. “I don’t wanna know how you knew that.”

“Best not to.” She had a hint of a smile, though, to let him know she was okay.

“You should sleep,” he said, squeezing her hand. “We’ll debrief tomorrow.”

“Mmkay,” she murmured, already half asleep. By the time it occurred to her to protest, she was already slipping into the deep waters of slumber. 

***

Clint insisted on being allowed to sleep in the chair next to Nat’s bed, waking every time the nurse came in to check her vitals. There were STRIKE members posted outside her room but Clint didn’t care. He wasn’t leaving her again, no way. 

He yawned and looked at his watch. Five a.m.; too early to be awake. He glanced over at Nat and saw she too was awake, watching him. 

“Hey,” he said softly. “How are you doing?”

She shrugged, then winced. “Head hurts a little, but it’s better than it was earlier.” She gave him a small smile. “You found me.”

“Of course.” His face scrunched into a look of irritation. “Did you have any doubt?”

She laughed. “No, I guess not. So… Vasily?”

Clint reached over and took her hand, running his fingers over hers. “Coulson wants to be the one to fill you in.” He rolled his eyes. “I think he’s so happy you’re alive he just wants to check on you himself. This is just an excuse.”

“When can I come home?” she asked abruptly. 

Clint shrugged. “No idea. We’ll figure it out tomorrow. Well, today, I guess.”

“Hmm.” She frowned. “Clint… my necklace…”

He shot her a crooked grin. “I’ve got it safe. As soon as it was processed by forensics I got it back.”

“Can I have it?”

He shook his head. “You can have it back when you get home.”

Nat looked mutinous, and she narrowed her eyes. “Fine.”

***

Coulson arrived at eight a.m. sharp for the ‘debrief’. Unfortunately, this meant she had to describe, in detail, what she’d been put through. It was fine—she was able to remove herself from the situation enough that it didn’t bother her. Clint was a different story. With every description of the torture she’d been subjected to, his face paled even more. 

As soon as Coulson left the room, after confirming that Vasily and all his cohorts had been killed, she turned to Clint. 

“I’m okay,” she said soothingly. 

But Clint was not to be placated so easily. “They _tortured_ you, Nat! That’s not okay!”

“No, it’s not,” she agreed. “Still, I’m okay. I am. You don’t get as far as I have without being able to compartmentalize. It’s done, it’s over, and aside from a couple of new scars there’ll be no change.”

“No change? You say that like they didn’t shock you over and over. Like they didn’t nearly drown you. Like they didn’t whip you with a _literal whip_. Jesus, Nat.”

She frowned, trying to find the words. “Yeah, what they did to me was horrific. But… Clint, I can’t let it get to me. I don’t let it get to me. Because if it did, then everything that happened to me in my past would get to me and I’d never survive it. This… detachment? It’s about survival. Please… don’t ask me to think about it.”

Clint looked at her for a long time, then exhaled noisily. “Fine. Okay. I get it. Just…” He laughed hollowly. “Just don’t do this to me again, okay?”

“I promise.” She knew—they both knew—that she wasn’t at liberty to promise any such thing,but it was a comforting fiction. 

***

Nat was sprung from hospital after three days of observation, and Clint couldn’t stop smiling as he drove her home—via his friend Kate’s house to pick up Lucky. He left her in fluffy PJs on the sofa as he found some blankets and ordered her favorite pizza. 

As they settled down together to watch _Ghosts of Girlfriends Past_ , which promised to be the best-terrible-romcom they would watch all year, Clint ran his fingers through Nat’s red hair. His hand glided down to her chin, and he drew her in for a kiss as his other hand toyed with the arrow necklace in the hollow of her throat. 

“You know I have all kinds of icky feelings for you, right?” he said, smiling against her mouth. 

“Oh good,” she muttered back, “because I have lots of icky feelings for you too.”

Clint smirked, and pressed play on the remote. Maybe they’d never psychologically deal with what had happened over the past week. Nat was safe though, and she was there, and that was all that mattered. 


End file.
